"Bring forward the woman. Let her swear that she is true and lawful wife."
The crowd swayed at the back. A domed red dhooli showed forcing its way to the front.
"Room! Room!" cried the ushers. "Room! Room! for the virtuous."
If it was virtuous, there was still something in the very fall of the swinging silk curtains, in the lift of the liveried bearers, which set men's pulses a-bounding. For it was Siyah Yamin's dhooli and she was inside. Would she unveil? Would they see her again, uttermost mistress of art, absolute owner of guile? A faint sigh of disappointment seemed to shudder through the crowd as, in obedience to order, the bearers set down the dhooli and removed the red domed cover, thus disclosing a muffled figure which rose and salaamed low toward Akbar. Something there was of ultimate grace in the salutation, which made remembrance still more clear, and sent a pang of resentment through many of those present that this perfection should no longer be public property. A cupola of chastity indeed! screened and guarded by veiled duennas! Not one in faith, but two! It was preposterous!--Siyah Yamin! the darling of the town!
"Woman!" came Akbar's voice, "wilt thou swear that thou art lawfully wedded to the exiled Jamâl-ud-din, Syed of Bârha?"
There was an instant's pause, then a gay clear voice with a bubble of laughter in it replied:
"Yea! I swear! even though Âtma---- Where art thou, sister? Disguised as yon duenna, I'll go bail!"
At her first word there was a faint scuffle, a flinging aside of a burka, a silver flash, and almost ere she ended the Châran's cry rang out
It is a lie
I, Âtma, I
Give it the lie
Ye Bright Ones see me die
Avenge the lie!
The death-dagger of Âtma Devi's race rose high in the air above the silver fillet on her loosened hair, and the next moment it would have been buried in the heart beneath the silver hauberk had not a man's voice--not kingly at all in its hurried command--cried quickly: